Things have taken a strange turn since my husband uprooted our family. First I quit my job. Then I stopped eating. And now I’ve begun to receive messages from the dead.
Four months ago, we moved from rural, pastoral Northern California, a place I loved, to southwest Virginia. Over the summer, smoke from the West Coast wildfires has followed us, traveling east across the country, shrouding the Blue Ridge Mountains in a haze made heavier by humidity. I like to look out the window, air purifiers humming behind me, and watch the microscopic remnants of home suspended in air, thinking they’ve been sent here just for me.
